


I May Have Punched Him

by duckbunny



Series: Camaraderie [8]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Asexual Character, Consensual Kink, Gen, Impact Play, Light Bondage, M/M, Masochism, No Sex, Platonic BDSM, Punching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:37:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5547572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckbunny/pseuds/duckbunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander Hamilton is a tomcat. John Laurens doesn't want to be. But he does, once in a while, want to be tied up and hit.</p><p>Rated M for consensual adult activities but there is no sex, no kissing, no nudity. Just some happy fun masochism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I May Have Punched Him

Hamilton, damn the man, follows him home.

He didn't intend to be noticed. But the evening is warm, warm enough for conversations on the street, and so of course when Laurens walks past with a handkerchief pressed to a freshly split lip, he's seen. He knows Hamilton is there - he recognises those footsteps behind him - so when he reaches his lodgings he leaves the door open behind him, a pointed invitation.

He's repacking his kit, just to have something to do with his hands, when Hamilton says quietly, "That's the second fist-fight you've started this week."

"Who says I started it?"

"If you hadn't you'd have remembered to duck. What did you do? Insult their mothers?"

"Shut up, Hamilton. Go home to your wife."

Because Hamilton, of course, has a wife. Hamilton has had lovers by the dozen. Hamilton gets just as twitchy, but Hamilton can do something about it. Laurens can't. Oh, he's capable, everything _works_ , whatever rumour says to the contrary. But he doesn't want to, has never wanted to, knows that's not what he needs when he's so wound up he can't stand still.

"So that's what this is about? You feeling lonely, Laurens? You going to go out and find yourself a willing woman? There's plenty around. Or are you just going to tidy a pack that doesn't need it and make friends with a bottle of rum?"

"Actually I was thinking whisky."

"You know that's not going to help. How long is it since you visited your madam?"

He feels himself shudder at the reminder. There's no way Hamilton didn't see it, and Hamilton is too damn clever when he starts paying attention. He'd been doing so well. He'd been _not thinking about it_. He drops the papers he's been uselessly shuffling and glares across the room at Hamilton, leaning calmly against the door like he hadn't just given grounds for a challenge. "If you're going to talk like that you can get out of my-"

"Or you could take your jacket off."

The man hasn't moved, but suddenly the room is too small and the clear space between them feels like inches. Laurens stares. He wants to say, _God, fuck, yes, please, thank you_. He says "Don't tease."

Hamilton actually looks surprised. "I'm not."

"You shouldn't degrade yourself."

"I've never found it so. You know I don't - and after what my habits have been, how could I? It's no hardship. It's nothing even to be ashamed of - Laurens, have I ever offered this and not meant it?"

Laurens takes a breath to refuse, and feels it shuddering in his chest. Just the idea, and he's falling apart. "Okay. Okay."

"Standing up or lying down?"

"Floor," he answers, shedding his jacket, and when he turns back Hamilton has taken the blanket off the bed and laid it out. "I don't need that."

"Yes, you do," Hamilton says smugly, "because I'm going to sit on you and otherwise your hips would bruise. Stop arguing and take the blanket. It's a hard floor."

The hard floor was part of the point, but _sit on you_ makes up for that. Would make up for a lot more. He memorises the way _I'm going to sit on you_ sounds, for the nights when all he'll have is memory.

Even with the blanket underneath, it's an unforgiving place to lie, and Hamilton's weight straddling his hips is enough to pin him. Laurens drops his face to the scratchy wool and savours it, moving just enough to feel how he _can't_ move, the man's solid warmth pressing him down. He doesn't even realise he's crossed his wrists until Hamilton leans forward and grips them both.

For half a heartbeat, he's ashamed of himself. That is something brought from the brothel, something he shouldn't taint a friendship with. But Hamilton is sitting on his hips and pinning his hands and arching over his back like a cage and when Hamilton says "Would you like to be tied?" he can't help the hungry noise he makes. It's inexpert, the neckcloth wrapped around his wrists and knotted where he could get his teeth into it. He pulls at it, just to check, and it holds. His forehead hits the floor with a thump.

Hamilton chuckles above him. "I'll do that again. That's effective."

"Promise?" Laurens mumbles, trying to sound like he's joking and certain he doesn't. In answer, Hamilton just presses his knuckles in, and runs them down hard either side of his spine. 

"Your back is like wood, Laurens. What have you been doing to it? I've met salt fish with more give. If we stretched you out we could use you for a bridge. Mind, that would save on supply costs. I shall suggest it to the General."

Hamilton always talks. Hamilton talks like he breathes. But he doesn't always need answers, and Laurens doesn't even try to provide them, after the first blow lands.

It's sharp more than hard, a quick fist to the ridge of muscle over his shoulder. He gasps quietly, trying to remember how to breathe through this. The first few are sporadic, dancing around his shoulders, but then Hamilton discovers that when he's on top of Laurens, instead of beside him, he can use both hands like he's punching dough and it settles into a rhythm, solid one-two thumps.

Laurens closes his eyes. He matches the pattern of the hands on his back, holding his breath while they land, taking deep gasps of air in between. He knows he can't escape those hands, can't wriggle away from the blows that spread across his back and leave warmth behind them. He doesn't try. He just keeps breathing and waits for the next fist to land.

Hamilton is telling some stupid story, something about Lafayette and a missing letter, when he pauses and leans forward. Laurens raises his head, suddenly afraid, suddenly terrified that Hamilton will get him to this point and then realise what he's doing and _stop_ , but Hamilton only rests a hand on his neck and says, "Do you want me to keep going?", and Laurens manages "Harder, _please_ ," through shuddering breaths.

Hamilton braces himself on one hand, picks up his thread about Lafayette's terrible spelling, and starts pounding Laurens into the floor.

When he wants to, Hamilton can hit _hard_. It takes work to handle it, to take the spreading pain of every impact and ride it, to brace in time for the next. Laurens stops holding his breath. He needs the air to keep going, even at this steady pace, and gradually he loses the fight to keep quiet. Panting gives way to whimpering, but when Hamilton strokes his spine and asks if he's okay, he just props himself up on his elbows to give a better angle, and Hamilton switches hands and keeps going.

The blows slow before they stop. Laurens scarcely notices, hazy from the beating, as fists give way to softer palms, rubbing at his tender back. He doesn't notice until Hamilton strokes his neck and says "I never cease to be amazed by how much of that you can take." Then he hums contentedly and rolls his shoulders, feeling the muscles burn. Hamilton moves off him and he falls onto his side, feeling no desire to move further, possibly all night.

Hamilton, of course, has other ideas, and manages perhaps a minute of lying still before he is tugging at the makeshift ties around Laurens' wrists.

"You realise you have completely crumpled my neckcloth."

"Beg pardon, but it was you who did the crumpling. I remember it. I was there."

"Which would certainly make you complicit in the eyes of a jury. You had a positive duty to preserve my clothing and in that, my friend, you have entirely failed."

"Hamilton," he says lazily, "go home."

"Do you still plan to drink yourself into a stupor?"

Laurens swallows. "No. Thank you. That was... perfect."

"Just stop letting it get that bad before you let me help."

_It gets that bad all by itself_ , he thinks. But he might admit, grudgingly, that he doesn't altogether hate letting Hamilton fix it.

 


End file.
